Opportune Moment
by Zayz
Summary: Sparrabeth implied. Jack, complete with two very important bottles collected on his travels, wonders if tonight is the opportune moment he has been waiting for. R&R?


**A/N: I was actually flipping through my old documents, and to my astonishment, I found this sitting there. So, because I was avoiding doing something a lot more important, I brushed it up for you lot. It's mildly pointless, but I felt it was something that needed to be written, lol.**

**Dedicated, as always, to my friend Lizbet (XxIcexX) – I love you like Jack loves his rum, darling.**

* * *

He was sitting in his longboat.

The longboat was floating.

Therefore, _he _was floating.

Just floating.

Coasting.

Existing.

He wasn't here or there. He only _was_.

His black eyes – usually so passionate and lively – were oddly flat, the dying light playing their shadows on them and showing off their uncharacteristic taciturn. His line of vision, which appeared ambiguous at first glance, was actually fixed upon a small island a mile or two away.

It seemed to be completely out of the blue, sitting there where it was, in the middle of such a blue sea; almost as if it had no business to be there.

The same held true for him…

…Sort of.

He actually did have a reason to be there.

That reason was about two inches shorter than he was, with dirty-blonde hair and eyes the color of cacao.

It had a name, too – it went by Elizabeth Swann.

Ahem, Turner.

So yes, all right, he had caved, and he was there to see her, six years after he thought he'd said good-bye to her for good.

Six years was a long time, admittedly; he'd wanted to see her again, see what had become of her. And he had all the time in the world, hadn't he? He'd been to the Fountain of Youth, seen it with his own two eyes, and kept a bit of the magic water he'd found.

Just enough for two.

He'd retrieved it years ago, but he hadn't drunk it. Not yet. He hadn't really found the opportune moment yet, so he didn't feel right taking the most important drink of his soon-to-be-extended life without knowing that it was _exactly _the right time.

But he had a feeling tonight might be it.

So he continued to sit in the longboat, and float purposelessly.

The only purpose that could be seen sported on him was in his eyes, which were still fixated upon that island.

He was floating, but he was watching. Waiting.

And then, finally, his patience was rewarded – _she _walked out.

His heart skipped a beat.

Was it really _her_?

Could she be?

A somehow-closer look told him that yes – it was her.

He couldn't believe it; like him, she was almost exactly the same. Same hair, same eyes, same slim, beautiful build. The same elegance to her walk, the same moody pout she used when she was vacantly looking into space.

It really was her.

How nice it felt to see her again.

It wasn't overwhelming, like he'd had an inkling it might be. It wasn't filled with this perverse longing he knew he'd harbored for her all those years ago. It wasn't any of that, oddly enough.

It was just _nice_.

He watched her walk on the beach in her bare feet, her toes digging into the sand with each step. She tucked her hair behind her ear, and sat down right by the edge of the water, so that the gentle waves washing up on shore bathed her ankles every time. Then she hugged her knees, and stared out as aimless as he, out to the ocean and the span of air and space beyond them.

To him, it was another place to go – a promise for something new past the horizon.

But for her, it must be different; it must remind her of the prison she's put herself in. It must remind her of the brief taste she'd had of the free life he led, remind her of the things she'd done and what they had cost her.

Was it silly of him to hope it reminded her at least a little bit of him?

Yes, it was; so no, he did _not _hope it reminded her at least a little bit of him.

He continued to study her as she sighed and laid her chin on her kneecaps. From what he saw, this seemed to be a ritual of hers – something she did often, if not every evening, when the sun began to set and cast its dying, bloody tinge across the expanse of the ocean, bluer than the sky on a cloudless afternoon.

Her expression was passive, so he presumed that there were too many more thoughts passing through her mind at that exact moment. He took a moment to ponder over what they might be.

It had been a while since they'd parted good-bye, leaving each other as quickly as they'd met. A lot had changed for him since then, and even though he hadn't known her very long, there was still something comforting in the notion of seeing someone familiar again.

He picked up the oar from beside him carefully, since he hadn't moved very much for the past hour or so. It was time to take a rest and re-acquaint with an old friend.

He paddled down towards the shore, in the direction she was not currently looking in, and he was only a few yards away from the sand where she sat, but then, as swiftly as he made the decision to see her, he made the decision to stop.

Again, he floated.

Watched.

Waited.

Pondered.

The water he had kept with him seemed to weigh him down to the bottom of the ocean, but he continued to float all the same, a million thoughts sprinting through his mind as a million sprinted through hers.

He glanced once more at her, committing her to memory once again, and then, abrupt again, he turned the boat around.

He paddled back out and past the tiny island, quietly but with as much speed as his vessel would allow him.

He didn't want to be here. He _couldn't _be here. He didn't know what he had been thinking. He was so bloody stupid. This had been a bad idea.

But, nonetheless, he went backwards a little bit until he could see where she had been sitting before.

She was getting up now, and making her way back to the small house in which he assumed she lived.

She had not seen him. She didn't know that he had almost come to see her. He wondered what she would have done if she'd known.

Probably nothing special. She'd never liked him much anyway.

He rowed forward again, and out of sight. His pace picked up considerably when he didn't have to mind the noise.

He rowed and rowed and rowed until his arms were sore and his breath was short and ragged.

He was far away from her now, and he could continue to float.

Coast.

Exist.

Tomorrow was an important day, because tomorrow would be the day he would have the eternal life he had always dreamed of.

He was ready for it now, he decided.

The opportune moment was finally here. It would be sinful to waste it.

And at the first rays of dawn twelve hours from now, he knew he wouldn't.

There was nothing else that could possibly distract him, for he'd done all he'd needed to do.

Nobody could ask for any more than that.


End file.
